


A Coffee Triptych

by serialkarma



Category: Wilby Wonderful (2004)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serialkarma/pseuds/serialkarma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Come in," she said,</i><br/>"I'll give you shelter from the storm."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Coffee Triptych

**Panel I**  
  
Duck’s neck was warm, almost hot under Dan’s perpetually cold fingers. Behind his closed eyes he saw a flash of a sunny summer day, like the one that would shine in his window once the morning fog burned off.   
  
Duck’s hand on his face was warm, too, and real.   
  
He didn’t open his eyes until he felt the mattress dip as Duck moved. His hand tightened involuntarily on Duck’s wrist, but Duck wasn’t leaving--he was coming closer, staring at Dan with the focused regard that had made Dan so nervous, so filled with want and shame, in the hotel. Now he felt his heart speed up in anticipation, and he stuck out his tongue to wet his lips.  
  
But Duck didn’t kiss his mouth. Instead, he leaned up, and Dan felt surprisingly soft lips land on his forehead and rest there, in no hurry to move on.  
  
When Duck lifted his head, he smiled--warm, like his skin--and Dan fought to swallow past the lump in his sore and scratchy throat. He tightened his grip on the back of Duck’s neck, pulled him closer; Duck’s smile widened and he stared at Dan’s mouth as he lowered his head.  
  
This kiss was as soft as the last one, close-mouthed and uncomplicated. Duck pulled back one long, sweet moment later and he took Dan’s hand in both of his and rested them casually in his lap as he opened his mouth to say something. A cleared throat interrupted him and they both turned to the door, where a doctor Dan vaguely recognized was standing stiffly, looking at the wall above Dan’s head with a deep and apparently abiding interest.  
  
“Uh, Mr. Jarvis,” he said to the wall. “I’m Dr.-- ”  
  
But Dan wasn’t paying attention, because Duck stood up and moved away from him, and the whole side of Dan’s body that had been next to Duck felt cold.   
  
“No, you don’t have to leave,” he croaked.  
  
Duck squeezed his hand and put it gently down on the side of the bed.  
  
“It’s okay. You should talk to this guy. He probably has some questions for you. But I’ll come back,” he added, forestalling another interruption. “I’m gonna--go get a coffee.” He cocked his head toward Dan and smiled again. “You want me to bring you one?”  
  
The doctor addressed the wall to Dan’s right this time. “Mr. Jarvis, that’s not-- ”  
  
“That sounds nice,” Dan smiled, watching as Duck gathered up his jacket and slipped past the doctor with a nod that wasn’t acknowledged.   
  
Dan kept his eyes on Duck until he disappeared out of the door. Dr. Whoever, who had moved farther into the room, was still not looking at Dan.  
  
For once, Dan really didn’t care what this guy--this complete stranger, really--thought; and as the doctor began to drone about “questions about your mental state,” and “recent changes in your life,” Dan found himself counting the minutes until Duck came back, and would see him.  
  
  
  
**Panel II**  
  
Their shoulders bumped almost companionably as they walked toward Main Street, and Carol started to move away, giving Buddy the same space she’d give Deena or one of her clients. More, even, than her clients, she thought, remembering how she had patted Dan Jarvis on the back that afternoon. God, had that been the last human touch he’d felt before he’d…?  
  
Her shoulder brushed Buddy’s again and this time she didn’t move away. She realized with a jolt that she couldn’t remember the last time they’d exchanged more than the most perfunctory--obligatory--of touches.  
  
The next time she looked up, they were at Iggy’s. They’d taken the long way around, neither of them thinking about it. The “Open” sign hung in the door, and Carol could see Buddy, head down, hands deep in his pockets, reflected in the glass.  
  
She took a deep breath and reached out, put her hand on his arm. His startled look suddenly felt like the saddest thing that had happened to her all night.  
  
“Would you like to stop and, uh, get a cup of coffee?” She nodded toward Iggy’s and Buddy looked over and then quickly back to the ground.  
  
“No. No, I’m…not in the mood. For coffee.”  
  
“Oh. All right then.” She tried not to let her sinking heart show on her face.  
  
Then Buddy lifted his head and looked at her, his head tilted to the side, a crease between his eyebrows, like he was thinking very hard about something. His tongue ran along his lower lip and he said, “Why don’t we go home? I’ll make you breakfast.”  
  
A warm feeling she hadn’t felt in too long started in her stomach. “That sounds nice,” she said.  
  
The crunch of gravel drew their attention and they both looked up as Duck’s truck stopped outside of Iggy’s. The door dinged as he got out. There was a smile on his face as he turned toward the diner and caught sight of Carol and Buddy.  
  
“Hi, Duck,” Buddy said with a wave.  
  
“Buddy,” Duck replied. His eyes turned to Carol and his gaze turned a little more serious. He nodded hello to her and looked for a moment like he was going to say something. But he just smiled, nodded again, as though answering a question she hadn’t asked, and went on into Iggy’s.  
  
Carol watched him go in, then turned back to Buddy. He tucked her arm into his elbow and smiled faintly. As they walked on toward home, it occurred to Carol that Duck MacDonald out of those paint-splattered overalls – cleaned up kind of nice.  
  
  
  
**Panel III**  
  
  
The ancient transistor radio was turned to a classic rock station, and Emily was singing along while she wiped the counter down. “You can’t always get what you want…”  
  
Sandra hummed along too as she wrote DINING ROOM OPEN in thick black letters on a sheet of butcher paper. Maybe she ought to see if Duck would paint it in the window--make it look a little more polished.  
  
“Mum. Mum?” Emily finished with the counter and leaned forward on her elbows, kicking her feet up behind her. She looked about 8 years old--as long as you didn’t look at her eyes. Emily’s eyes had a way of making Sandra feel like she was the child, far more often than she cared to admit.  
  
“What is it, Em?”  
  
“Do you know what you want?”  
  
“For breakfast? Oh, no, it’s far too early to eat.” She got up and went behind the counter to look for tape.   
  
“No, I mean…” Emily put both feet on the ground and rested her head on her arms, watching Sandra. “I mean--do you know what you want out of life?”  
  
Sandra stopped rummaging in the drawer and looked at her daughter.  
  
“What do I want out of  _life_?” Gee, kid, when I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know. But that wasn’t something you could tell your 16-year-old daughter when she was staring at you like your answer would determine the course of her future.  
  
Sandra braced her hands on the counter and thought about it. Finally, she shrugged and said, “I guess I want what most people do--to be happy. And for  _you_  to be happy.” She quirked an eyebrow. “That all right with you?”  
  
Emily smiled. Apparently Sandra had passed whatever test she’d been given.  
  
“Yeah,” Emily said with a grin, picking up the sponge off the counter and tossing it in the sink.   
  
“What-- ” Sandra started to ask, but just then the door jingled and their first customer of the day stepped in.   
  
It was Duck, awfully dressed up for the time of day--for any time of day, really, because this was  _Duck_ , who she rarely saw in anything that wasn’t sun-faded and paint-spattered.  
  
Sandra bit her lip as she remembered the last time she had seen him. The only other person who could make her feel so ashamed of herself with one look was standing on the other side of the counter from him, and she didn’t think she could handle that kind of regard from both barrels this morning.  
  
But Duck just smiled and said “Morning, Sandy,” and turned to Emily. “How’re you doing?” he asked softly.  
  
Emily’s face lit up. “I’m good,” she said, grinning back. “How’s, uh, how’s he doing?”  
  
Duck’s smile grew bigger. “He’s gonna be okay.” He looked about 15, Sandra thought, except she couldn’t remember Duck ever smiling at 15.  
  
The two of them seemed better acquainted than she would have thought. When had that happened?  
  
_“He’s an arsehole,”_  Emily had said.  
  
_“How far did he get before you found_  that  _out?”_  
  
“Not far.”  
  
Looking at Duck and Emily chatting quietly at the other end of the counter, Sandra suddenly wanted very badly to know exactly how far “not far” was and where Duck had come into it.  
  
“What can I get you?” Emily was asking.  
  
“Two coffees,” he replied.  
  
“How’d you like them?”  
  
“I’ll have mine black, with two sugars, and, uh…” Duck stopped, a frown creasing his forehead. He looked confused.  
  
Emily smiled at him. “That’s okay. I know how he likes it.” She went to fill Duck’s order, and Duck finally turned toward Sandra.  
  
“How much?” he asked, digging for his wallet.  
  
Sandra waved his money away. “Don’t worry about it, it’s on the house.”  
  
Duck glanced from her to the coffees waiting for him on the counter. “Are you sure? I can…” he gestured, indicating that he  _had_  money, after all.  
  
“Not this time,” Sandra told him, glancing at Emily. If she was correct about what had happened last night, Duck MacDonald was never going to pay for coffee at Iggy’s again.   
  
Duck’s gaze followed hers to Emily, who was watching them like they were a particularly complex tennis match. Then he nodded in understanding and smiled at her--a real one this time. He picked up the two coffees with a, “Thanks, then. See ya,” and headed for the door.  
  
“Duck!”  
  
He turned in the act of shouldering the door open.  
  
“I’ve got the dining room open now. Why don’t you bring--why don’t you and Dan Jarvis stop in for dinner some night?”  
  
Duck stared at her for a moment, and then smiled one more time. “All right,” he said. “That sounds nice.”

**Author's Note:**

> Big huge thanks to lyra_sena for the beta and to estrella30 for some cogent last minute comments. I really wasn't particularly happy with this story until they got their hands on it and helped me fix it, so the reason it works at all is entirely their fault.
> 
> I don't usually write to music, or get inspired by a song, or anything like that. But I don't think the idea for this story would have come to me if I hadn't been listening to Bob Dylan a lot right after seeing Wilby Wonderful. If I were going to dedicate this story to anyone, I suppose I'd dedicate it to him, but, uh, that would be unbearably cheesy, so never mind. I do feel I ought to point out, though, that I think Blood on the Tracks is quite possibly one of the finest albums of the last 100 years. So there.
> 
> The Stones shout-out is for hackthis.


End file.
